


Angels We Have Heard On High

by Astrophilla, sunshinewinchesters



Series: Destiel Christmas Advent Calendar 2015 [11]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 25 Days of Christmas, 25 Days of Destiel Christmas, Castiel Sings, Christmas, Comforting Castiel, Destiel Advent Calendar, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 06:24:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5406371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astrophilla/pseuds/Astrophilla, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinewinchesters/pseuds/sunshinewinchesters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean can't sleep. Castiel sets out to fix that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angels We Have Heard On High

**Author's Note:**

> Written by sunshinewinchesters  
> Beta'd by Astrophilla
> 
> Type: Canonverse AU, established Castiel/Dean
> 
> **The eleventh installation of our Destiel Advent Calendar!**

Dean Winchester is a restless man. For as long as he can remember, he’s always been searching out ways to keep himself busy, to always be doing something. He is most restless in the evenings, though, especially after a long day of kicking evil supernatural ass. His body is weary and heavy with his exhaustion, muscles burning and bones aching for sleep, for a chance to recover. But at the same time, it refuses to let him surrender himself to such out of reach unconsciousness. He’s always been as ready to turn in for the night as Sam, after they’ve had their motel showers and are able to retire to their motel beds, yet never has it been as easy as it is for his brother for the hunter to collapse onto the hard mattress and be snoring within minutes. Dean’s brain won’t allow it. 

No matter how many times he climbs in between the sheets, he can never knock out like Sam does. He just feels this ever present _need_ to be doing something at all times, and always has. All he can think of is the guns he needs to clean, the dried blood he needs to scrape off the seats in the Impala. Most nights the desire to be doing something is much deeper and more taxing, the issues far more pressing than just typical maintenance. There are lives that need saving, spirits and vampires and shapeshifters to kill, demons with plans to stop, adversaries who are working against him even as he just lies there, waiting for sleep. For such a man of action, lying awake thinking about these things when he knows he needs sleep is a form of nightly torture he’d become well acquainted with. 

Tonight, ghouls and the nearly empty holy oil jug aren’t what’s keeping Dean from turning out the lights and getting into bed in their current shithole motel room. Nope. It’s friggin’ Christmas. Dean had never thought a _holiday_ of all things would have him so needy to do something. It’s not the Martha Stewart type shit that’s occupying his mind, but rather the fact that he wants his family to be safe back at the bunker for Christmas, not being dragged through below freezing temperatures on some werewolf chase like they will surely be heading out on tomorrow. That’s not a Christmas, that’s a shitty excuse for killing something when they should be spending time together, or some sappy crap like that. Dean sighs, dragging a hand over his face as he walks into the bathroom and back out, standing in the middle of the motel room and looking out the window at the darkness obscuring the snow. Sam’s several towns over, picking up some silver bullets from the only nutjob who’d advertise that he sells them. He heads over to it and peers through the glass, burning with the desire to get out there and do something—anything—that isn’t staying holed up in here for the night. 

With the quiet swish of displaced air and the telltale rustle of feathers, Cas appears right behind him, embracing the hunter from behind before stepping back to allow him to turn around. “Dean,” Cas greets him warmly, those ethereal blue eyes the color of the ocean in the late summer. “I’m sorry I am back so late. Amael needed my assistance delegating authority in the Seventh Circle,” the angel explains. Dean takes the step forward necessary to close the space between them, mouthing his angel’s name, and presses their lips together, feeling his tense muscles start to unwind as Cas tilts his head just right and fits their lips together in a way that’s as familiar as the afterburn of whiskey or the rumble of Baby’s engine. They don’t need any words to communicate how much they missed each other, nor how happy they are to see other. With them, words only get in the way. Dean is a man of action, after all, and the way he tangles his fingers in Cas’ hair and traces the curve of the angel’s full bottom lip speaks volumes in a way words could never achieve. 

“Bed?” Cas breathes out, the word heady and weighted with strong undertones of affection. He’s said the word a hundred different ways and Dean knows the meaning behind each like the back of his hand. He nods, leaning in to kiss Cas’ spit-slick cherry lips one more time before pulling back to divest himself of his flannel, socks, and jeans. He shucks them off as Cas shrugs out of his trench coat, draping it over one of the chairs in the room, and then swiftly unbuttons his dress shirt and loosens his tie. There’s nothing distinctly sensual about their undressing, and he knows once they’re in bed, they won’t be having passionate, bed-rocking sex, rather lying there in each other’s presence. And Dean knows that means just as much to him as the sex. It’s this thing between them, this certain brand of intimacy that comes with sharing a bed with the man he loves, that has Dean head over heels to just be between the sheets with him. Anything they do in the private, sacred moments in between lying down and getting up is equally awesome to the hunter. He’d never expected himself to be satisfied with a night of spooning, but now that he has it, it’s everything. 

Cas is now in just his boxers, as is Dean, and he offers the hunter a disarmingly peaceful smile as he takes his hand and pulls him onto the motel bed. It’s written in every fluid, gentle, languid movement Cas makes, in the way he wraps an arm around Dean’s waist and pulls the hunter against his side, Dean tugging the sheets up over them and hooking a leg over Cas’. It’s in the quiet, gravelly “Goodnight, beloved,” Cas whispers against his ear before kissing the top of his head. The serenity, the calmness, is radiating from his angel like the fuzzy halo of light from a lightbulb, and should be soaking into Dean and having him fall asleep in no time, just like he usually does on these days. But not tonight. Tonight, Dean’s thoughts still race a mile a minute, and the sweeping strokes of Cas’ hand through his hair does nothing to lull him into blissful unconsciousness. His body feels stiff with nervous energy, and his hands keep twitching involuntarily as he thinks of all the things he has left to do. He’s got a werewolf to kill and presents to buy, and yet, he’s lying here, unable to sleep, being completely unproductive as each minute brings him closer to Christmas. Man, never before would he have thought a holiday could have him this antsy.

The minutes continue to tick by, and Dean is as awake as ever, despite the tired ache of his eyes and the protest of his body each time he rolls over, moving his arms and legs off Cas and then positioning them a new way each time. He turns onto his stomach, then his side, the other side, and then flips over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling and releasing a slow breath. Cas’ breaths have evened out and he isn’t shifting, not like Dean is every few minutes, which means he must be sleeping. Dean almost laughs at the fact that a being who doesn’t need sleep has actually found it before him, no problem whatsoever. Maybe he’s too hot, maybe that’s what’s preventing him from passing out. The hunter shoves the blankets off of him and all onto Cas, stretching his legs out and clenching and unclenching his fists. Several minutes pass and then he is too cold, the chill of the room making him shiver. This is getting ridiculous, he thinks. Maybe if he just gets up and walks around a bit, gets a drink of water or something, it’ll reset his brain and finally allow him to drop off into unconsciousness. 

Right as he’s about to roll out of bed, he feels a familiar, muscular arm slide over his waist, pulling him in against Cas’ chest tight so that he’s now on his side and facing the angel. Cas did this all in one swift, fluid movement, only disorienting the hunter a little. Dean’s about to apologize for waking him up when Cas rolls Dean underneath him, coiling both arms around his waist and mouthing at his neck with hot, lingering kisses. Dean involuntarily moans, eyes slipping shut as he loses himself to the heady suction of Cas sucking marks over his jugular, tongue laving away before he pulls off with a wet slide. The marks taper off to gentle kisses before Cas kisses Dean’s forehead and the sensation of his lips on skin disappears. “Sleep.” Castiel orders firmly, his voice softened from sleep, yet still full of ethereal power, all whiskey and gravel. He nuzzles his face against Dean’s neck, huffing out of breath, and hitches a leg over Dean’s hip.   
“But I can’t—” Dean starts, his voice whisper-quiet. Castiel is not having it.  
“You can. I will help you.” Dean’s about to ask how the angel intends on doing that, but Cas’ voice is final and leaves no room for discussion. So Dean drops his head back onto the pillow and lays there, wrapping one of his arms around Cas and using the other to tug the blankets back into place over their shoulders. As much as the hunter wants to obey Cas’ demands and drop off into a non-stressful coma and not panic over Christmas for a little while, he’s unable to, his mind once again starting to buzz with more preparations he’s already falling behind on doing. The obsessing stops dead in its tracks the moment Cas starts singing. 

Dean listens in complete awe at the deep, melodic rumble of each note Cas sings, graceful syllables of Enochian rolling off his tongue, warm breath at Dean’s nape as he quietly sings, just loud enough for the hunter to hear each line sang right next to his ear. He’s never heard Cas sing before, never heard that unfairly sexy, husky flow of one syllable into another, weaving into some intricate and distinctly archaic harmony that resonates somewhere deep inside him. Even though he doesn’t understand the words, something about them, about their beautiful rise and fall and soft way of melting into one another comforts him on all levels. They’re like honey, smooth and sweet, and Dean finds himself speechless, entranced at the sound of the Enochian, Cas’ lips brushing feather-light over his skin. Cas lets the last note draw out and decrescendo until his voice drops off, then tightens his arms around him. “I would sometimes sing to you, when you were having trouble sleeping,” Castiel comments quietly, feeling along Dean’s arm until he finds his hand and twines their fingers together. “I would sing and it would always help you fall into a sounder sleep, even without the use of my grace.” Castiel notes, his voice now warm. Dean doesn’t reply; he doesn’t need to. Cas already knows, already knows the effect his singing has on him. Something about it is too sacred to make a remark on, so Dean closes his eyes as Cas’ song continues.

Within minutes Dean’s eyelids are drooping, his breathing beginning to level out as his mind sinks closer to unconsciousness. Between the familiar, reassuring heat of Cas on top of him, and the quiet, rhythmic sound of Cas’ beautiful singing, Dean is unable to resist sleep much longer. When he does finally drop off, he doesn’t toss and turn, doesn’t wake at the barest twitch of Cas’ arm around him or pillow-muffled inhale. Dean just sleeps.


End file.
